The Not-So-Daily Bread
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl AU. Fluffy. Old habits die hard. One of those old habits leads Carol to head out for a nice afternoon with nature. Little does she know that she might be finding some new habits to develop along the way. Rated for language. Daryl/Carol
**AN: Here's a little piece of Caryl fluff. It was requested some time ago (sometimes I'm slow with these things) by therealsonia on Tumblr. I finally sat down and wrote it. And, for the record, I'm accepting fluff requests for the rest of the day. What I don't get to will go on the list to be done as soon as I can get to them.**

 **I own nothing from the Walking Dead.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Carol only went to the park that day because the sun was shining and she couldn't bring herself to throw away three almost-whole loaves of bread—even if they were stale.

There was a time in her life when Carol simply couldn't have _enough_ bread in the house. When she'd been married to Ed and Sophia had lived at home, she was sometimes caught running out for an extra loaf two or three times a week. Sophia liked toast in the morning. She liked sandwiches for lunch. Ed wasn't just a _sandwich_ kind of man, rather he was a _two_ sandwiches kind of man. Sometimes, for lunch, he'd request what he called two _lunch sandwiches_ and then a third of peanut butter and jelly for _dessert_.

Bread was one thing that never went bad in the Peletier household. Carol, to keep from running out of the desirable pieces for her husband and her daughter, would normally limit herself to simply eating the heels of the loaves, always left behind, if she ever decided to have a piece of toast or something with her coffee.

But Sophia was out of the house. She was away at college now. She came home once a month and didn't eat enough sandwiches during her weekend visit to go through all the bread that came in a loaf. And Carol hadn't even heard from Ed since six months after her divorce was final and she'd filed the restraining order against him.

And though she'd liked sandwiches before, when she'd eaten the nice pieces of bread. And even though she _could_ have those pieces again, Carol couldn't recall the last time she'd made one for herself.

Old habits die hard.

With something like autopilot running, Carol bought bread every single time that she went to the store. She didn't even think about it. She cut down the bread aisle, grabbed a loaf of bread, put it in her basket, and she bought it at the register—all without thinking about it. Bread was just one of those things that she _had_ to buy at the grocery store. Whether or not she really needed it, she had to buy it. It was never until she got home, and she piled the fresh loaf on top of the other now-stale loaves that had been relatively untouched, that she even asked herself why it was that she had this deep-seated _compulsion_ to buy bread when she could never eat a whole loaf herself.

For her bread intake, it would be better to simply be able to buy the bread by the slice.

So when her last purchase had left her piling the one fresh loaf of bread on top of three that had been relatively untouched, Carol had decided to do something with the bread besides simply tossing it into the trashcan and scolding herself for her wasteful ways. She'd changed her clothes, determined to enjoy the sunshine and get out of her house, and she'd gone to the park to feed the family of ducks that lived at the little pond there.

She'd been a little self-conscious, walking across the park with three loaves of bread in her hands, but she'd pushed it out of her mind. No one there was paying her any attention. No one there cared what she was doing. They were all out enjoying the sunshine. None of them were worried about the crazy woman who had three loaves of bread just to give as stale offerings to the water-fowl residents of Goodwill Park.

When she got to the pond, though, she realized she wasn't the only one who had the idea to feed the ducks. There was a man there, already sitting on the bank, and he was ripping chunks of bread out of the plastic bread-bag that rested beside him. Carol walked some distance off from him, not wanting to encroach on his space, but it soon became clear that the ducks had no interest in her or the few pieces of stale bread that she threw into the water and watched sink. He'd come first and they would rally around him until he left with nothing more to offer them.

So Carol simply stood, waited, and pretended to be focused on the water and the children playing around her. She was really listening to him, though, and the more that she listened, the more her amusement grew.

"Stop it, you greedy ass! You done had six pieces and you ain't let them have none," he growled. "No—go away! Go over there! Get on, now! I ain't got a damn thing more for you. She's a girl! You—feathery little asshole!"

And the show went on.

The longer it went on, the more Carol lost interest in pretending she wasn't watching him. There was one duck—presumably the leader or the head duck or whatever an alpha duck might technically be called—that seemed faster and more determined than all the others. In an attempt to keep bread away from him, the man would throw the bread chunks first in one direction and then in the other. The duck, though, would always manage to beat the others—all following behind it in a line to search for crumbs—and gobble up the bread. The man would lean back, nearly toppling himself in his place, to pitch the bread as far as he could, but the only thing that distance accomplished was that the hungry ducks simply had to go farther for their disappointment.

"I ain't got no damn more!" He barked at the duck that had raised his blood pressure. "You ate it all! Don't come over here looking for no more! Might as well've just put the damn bag down for you to eat all at once. Greedy little asshole."

The man got up, his bread as gone as he said it was, and dusted himself off from his time spent rolling around in the grass. Carol, for her part, was still standing some distance off and laughing about the show that she'd been provided with for the day. She watched as the man walked to the trashcan, threw away the bread-bag, and then spat some sort of farewell to the ducks like they were old friends that would meet again, in another week or so, at the bar for drinks and a catch-up on the week's happenings.

To leave the park, he had to walk past Carol, and she did her best to get her laughter under control and to avoid his gaze as he walked past. It must not have worked, though, because he stopped directly behind her. She could feel his presence there, even if she didn't turn to see it.

"I heard you laughin'," the man said. "Hope you enjoyed the show. But—watch out for that big one. He's a greedy little asshole."

Carol couldn't hold it back. She coughed out her laughter from her effort to contain it. She wiped her eyes with her hand and turned to say something to the man—maybe even greet him and introduce herself properly—but he was already walking away.

And suddenly, without any explanation, Carol felt a little sorry that she hadn't gotten to meet him.

"Hey!" She called. Immediately her stomach twisted at the fact that she was calling for this man's attention—a man she didn't know anything about beyond the fact that he liked to feed ducks at the park—but she continued. She was already doing this. She'd already taken the first step. And all her friends told her that was the hardest step when it came to meeting someone—something she really hadn't tried to do much since her divorce. "Hey!"

The man stopped. He turned around, confusion on his face. He looked like he might turn and walk away. But he stayed.

"You talkin' to me?" He asked.

Carol smiled, the smile covering her nerves. She held up her bread collection.

"I've got more," she said. "It'll take me a while to throw it all out..."

The man stared at her. He stared at her until it was almost uncomfortable and Carol worried that she'd made a pretty big mistake by calling his attention. He didn't want to talk to her, and now he didn't know how to get out of it.

"Yeah—well, it's a nice day," the man said. "And—he's gotta get full sometime."

Carol's breathing, now, was a little heavier than she wanted it to be. Her heart, without asking any permission, was pounding a little harder than she thought it should be. She'd spoken to him. She'd put herself out there. Was this a rejection? Was he telling her that he wasn't interested in even speaking to her? It sounded like it, but it didn't sound like it.

She screwed up her resolve.

"If you wanted to help..." she said, letting the offer trail off. "He can't run in two directions at once. If we worked together—someone else might get something."

Immediately her voice ran out. She'd done as much as she could to invite the stranger to share in her afternoon break of tossing stale bread at the ducks. She couldn't say anything more. So the last effort she could make, and it was the last one she resolved to do before she simply gave up and let him leave, was to somewhat swing the bags of bread in his direction like she was physically offering for him to take one.

When he hesitated again, Carol turned back toward the water, where the ducks were now beginning to grow interested in her presence, and shrugged to herself while she started to untwist the tie from the first bread-bag.

"Suit yourself," she said to him, even though she doubted he was even standing there.

Except he _was_ standing there. He must have been. Because he walked up beside her a moment later and he took one of the other bags from the ground.

"I call his greedy little ass Howard," the man said.

Carol looked at him and furrowed her brow, half-smiling at his introduction to the conversation. He must have mistaken her expression for confusion over his choice of names for the ducks.

"Like Howard the Duck?" He prompted.

"Yeah," Carol said. "I...I understood that."

She thought he blushed. He mumbled an "oh" and he focused harder than necessary on the bread. He cleared his throat like he was choking on something.

"I'm Carol, by the way," Carol said, assuming that maybe he needed a little assistance in figuring out where normal conversation would go from here between strangers who were bonding over bread.

"Daryl," he said. He looked at her, offered her a smile that barely curled his lip, and then redirected his eyes to the bread.

He was handsome. In a rugged, too-long-out-in-the-sun, manual-laborer kind of way. He was probably around Carol's age. He could be a little older. Mid-fifties she could guess. She didn't find anything about him particularly distasteful, that was for sure. She was almost sorry that she'd chosen her outfit as willy nilly as she had and that she'd settled on dirty jeans, her old sneakers, and a light sweatshirt with a coffee stain for her duck-feeding adventures.

"You come here a lot?" Carol asked. "To—fight with Howard?"

"I'ma throw that way," Daryl said, ignoring her question a moment to organize their feeding attack. "You throw over there. But not too far. They'll follow him so—you just kinda throw in amongst them. Then we'll send 'em back your way and—and I'll throw in amongst 'em."

Carol smiled to herself and hummed her agreement to the plan.

"Like that?" She asked, pretending she wasn't capable of understanding how to feed ducks. He was satisfied enough with her performance, hummed his approval of her technique, and then pointed to direct her to throw again and change the direction of the birds. They could continue on like this for hours—but it worked. The ducks getting the second wave of bread were more than likely grateful for their efforts.

"Every week," Daryl said.

"What?" Carol asked.

"Every. Week," he repeated. "You ask if I come here a lot. Every week. My brother—he buys bread a lot. But he don't eat it. At least—he eats it for like a day but then he don't like it no more because it ain't as soft as it started. And—I eat outta what's left, but I can't eat like two loaves a week. So—I come here every week."

Carol laughed to herself.

"That's funny to you?" He asked, almost sounding offended.

"I buy bread every time I go to the store," Carol said. "Every time. But—I don't eat bread. Not really. Not that much. So it just goes bad. I usually throw it away, but today..."

"Why ya buy it if you ain't gonna eat it?" Daryl asked.

Carol hummed.

"Now that's the question that I ask myself every time I do it," Carol said. "I guess—it's because my daughter used to eat it. But—she's at college now. And my ex-husband...he used to eat it."

"Ex-husband?" Daryl asked.

Carol hummed. She noted, or she imagined, the little extra emphasis on the "ex". She didn't mind it. She usually put the extra emphasis there herself.

"Ex-husband," she repeated.

"Where's he?" Daryl asked.

"Hell, I hope," Carol said.

Daryl snorted and Carol laughed too. She quickly apologized.

"I'm sorry," she said. "That's—that was mean. I shouldn't have said that. He's—gone. And I'm not interested in knowing where."

"Reckon everybody's known them kinda people," Daryl said.

Carol hummed some form of agreement. She wasn't sure if _everybody_ knew someone like that. At least maybe everybody didn't feel the same way about others as she felt about Ed—there was a special dislike that she had for the man and his memory—but she assumed that Daryl was right in that there was always someone that you met in life that you could gladly do without.

"So—why do you throw the bread away?" Daryl asked. "Why don't you—bring it out here?"

"I don't know," Carol admitted. "It just—struck me today to do it. I never really thought about it before. It—seems like a waste of time? Seemed. I never really had a reason...before."

Daryl missed his throw and Carol realized it since the ducks didn't change in their synchronized movement. With the steady repetition of the back and forth, the birds seemed to be realizing what was happening and they were almost anticipating the next move before Carol and Daryl even got there. Carol stopped, not throwing her own piece, and furrowed her brow at him.

He was just looking at her again. And his stare was unnerving. It left her feeling vulnerable—like he could see too much.

"What's wrong?" Carol asked.

"You got a reason now?" He asked.

Carol's stomach knotted instantly in response. Maybe she'd said too much. Maybe she'd put her foot in her mouth. Maybe she should stop now, while she was ahead. But then—if she'd started, she might as well finish. The worst that could happen was that it would all end badly. And if it did? She'd be no worse off than she was when she'd arrived earlier with three loaves of bread.

"Maybe," she said, shrugging gently.

His lip curled again and he cleared his throat.

"I'm here every Saturday," he said. "Unless it rains. Then I come on Sunday. Monday if it rains all weekend. But only after..." He stopped and visibly blushed. Apparently his brain had told him that he was saying too much. But he surprised Carol and continued on through it, even if his voice wasn't as loud as before. "Only after six on workdays," he said. "You—uh—ya get the idea."

Carol smiled.

"I do," she said. Daryl, apparently satisfied, returned to throwing bread chunks and she followed his lead, picking off one slice and then another. The bread would run out, eventually, though, and she'd have no reason to linger there in the park and talk to him about the ducks—or about anything. "What—what do you usually do after? After you feed the ducks? What do you do?"

Daryl shrugged, but he didn't look at her that time. He was too busy watching his feathered friends scurry and dive after the most recent shower of bread crumbs.

"Go home," he said. "Drink a beer. Watch somethin' on t.v. if there's anything worth watching." He laughed to himself. "Watch somethin' that ain't worth watching if there ain't. Usually it's more that."

"Eat lunch?" Carol asked.

Daryl did look at her then.

"Yeah—I mean, I eat something," he said.

"Sandwich?" Carol asked, raising her eyebrows at him. He chewed his lip and now she was starting to realize that the somewhat puzzled look—accompanied by that stare—wasn't him looking _through_ her. It was his attempt, maybe, to figure out his next move.

He was just as nervous as she was. Just as rusty at this. Just as out of place.

And that felt pretty _comfortable_ because it wasn't easy to come by in people Carol's age, and it was one of the reasons that, honestly, she just hadn't quite "gotten back out there" as her friends would say. It was daunting, always feeling like you were the only one who was in over your head. Carol had, after all, only seriously been in a relationship with Ed. And she was attempting to take nothing from that relationship as anything to go on. So she was starting fresh. And starting fresh at almost fifty?

It made nerves a _very attractive_ feature.

Carol smiled at him.

"I've got a whole loaf of fresh bread at home," she said. "And—I'm not going to eat it all myself..."

"You're—inviting?" Daryl asked.

Carol nodded.

Daryl's lip curled up. There was a brief glimmer of a broader smile, and then he wiped away the expression. He nodded his head and reached down for the third loaf of bread. Carol watched as he fumbled with a twist tie that shouldn't have been nearly as complicated as it obviously was.

"I like sandwiches," he said, still not looking at her and still trying to better the twisted piece of green-plastic sheathed wire.

Carol smiled to herself, taking his acceptance of her invitation for what it was.

"Me too," she said.

"Less—uh," Daryl broke off and laughed to himself. "Less bread for the ducks, though."

"It's OK," Carol responded, amused at his concern—real or false, it didn't matter—over the ducks' welfare. "Howard looks like he could use a diet anyway."


End file.
